


Amplify

by Aestera



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, M/M, Pining, Post-Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, TST fix it fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 02:58:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11004546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aestera/pseuds/Aestera
Summary: The great flaw of a perfect silence is that allows for a series of unmentionables to come tumbling out of the woodwork.





	Amplify

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Depictions of drug use and its effects. Also, not exactly John/Mary friendly.
> 
> This was just a tiny wisp of an idea I had after watching TST, and fortunately I had some time on my hands to mold it into a somewhat coherent piece of writing. Do let me know if you enjoyed it, and as always, thanks for reading.

Sherlock doesn't remember the exact point in time when sound ceased to be part of his existence, only that it occurred somewhere after Mary's untimely demise.

The days just after were the worst. John's face in his every dream, weathered skin pulled taut with rage and despair, seething through clenched teeth, eyes hollow except for raw hate and unflinching accusation. There was guilt in there too, buried amidst the bright, shattered blue.

(Guilt is a funny emotion. Why should one regret choices they made in the past, when circumstances had bestowed upon them only a limited amount of time and resources for that decision to be made?)

_Sand through shaking fingers, time whirls by like a hurricane, sweeping everything off the ground in its terrifying rupture._

(But Sherlock closes his eyes and all he sees is John biting his lip in that way like he would give anything to erase and rewind. Obliterate the night where they had lain intertwined in silk sheets, watching the same Technicolor stars collide in front of their eyes. Or maybe wishing that he had slipped out early and made his way back to her, while Sherlock pretended to sleep and waited for the stone cold to pool in the pit of his stomach.)

As for the words, they are a faded blur in his memory, an incoherent jumble of letters he can no longer decipher.

Then john was gone, and Sherlock bolted the doors of his mind and heart, along with the entrance to their (his) cramped apartment and spent the next seven weeks completing neglected experiments and composing the most sordid tune known to mankind.

 

*

On the first day, he wakes on a frigid afternoon to a quiet, musical trickle by his bedside. Sheets of rain are slamming against his windowpane, like tiny shards of crystal. But the volume of it is what startles him the most. The rough clatter of water against glass is muted, subdued, as if he is listening through paper-thin walls.

He doesn’t think much of it at first, and heads downstairs for a cuppa and some toast.

(He makes two mugs of tea, only realizing when he gets up to toss the dishes into the sink.)

A stack of old case files are piled up on John’s chair, unsolved murders that have been eclipsed by the more pressing cases. Consulting criminals and blackmailers running rampant on the streets. He means to go through them, when he has exhausted his list of experiments. But some part of him is inclined to let the files remain there, gathering dust, keeping the seat warm for its missing occupant.

 

*

There are times when he looks up from the slivers of lung tissue on the countertop, only to find himself back in the aquarium, wandering amidst the endless sea of blue. Sharks and stingrays are swimming overhead in circles, casting strange shadows on the floorboards. Sometimes he even sees her corpse floating amongst the schools of clownfish, pallid and angelic, moving along with the tide.

_Norbury. Norbury. Norbury._

He blinks, and the glass melts away, replaced once again by the dim lights and the grinning skull on the mantel and the faded resonance of John’s laughter within the walls.

 

*

It takes him a full minute to pick up on the banging coming from the boot of the car. When they finally get the boot opened, the child is passed out from oxygen deprivation. Tiny wisp of a thing, deathly pale with bones sticking out all over the place. Paramedics and ambulances are converging around them in a flurry of noise and movement, and Sherlock feels just a little out of place. John usually takes over once the victim has been located or the murderer apprehended, grinning at him in that way that unravels his soul before dragging him off for Chinese.

The cloud of human emotion can be just a tad bit overwhelming, especially when most of it still confounds him. He debates slinking off and getting into a cab, but is stopped by Lestrade.

“Right in the nick of time, eh?” he grins, signaling for the team to disperse.

“I suppose.”

He buries his hands deep in his coat pockets and listens to the blare of the sirens, less jarring than usual, sucking in a breath of winter and storing it within the confines of his chest like a solemn reminder.

 

*

Ella is listening carefully, lips pursed and pen tapping rhythmically on her notebook. She doesn’t say a word as he rattles on about his day, a little too loudly. About the slivers of skin on the kitchen counter and the quart of pig’s blood he acquired from the local market. Filling the room with insignificant details so they won’t have to talk about the frantic staccato of his pulse and how the room has been twisting and distorting around him for the past twenty minutes.

“Sound…noise. Getting fainter by the day. Everything feels distant. Faraway.” He gestures wildly for dramatic effect, a cold sweat breaking out on his neck. “Probably an inner ear infection.”

“Sherlock. Look at me.” She says. Kind, gentle tone. He tries, but she’s a blur of pastels, edges seeping into the walls. “Have you been using again?”

“Maybe. Can’t remember.” He slurs. His tongue feels like lead, thick and heavy in his mouth. He remembers lying sprawled out on the couch, four patches on his arm, working through a myriad of facts and theories all coming in at once. New case, and he was on the verge of a breakthrough. Then he hears John, pleading. Screaming at a lifeless form. Clawing at the inside of his skull. And, suddenly it was all too much. He just needed a little. He thought about snorting but decided that the needle would be quicker.

“Well, I need you to. Or I’m going to have to call your brother.”

“No. Not Mycroft.”

She sighs. “Promise me that this will be the last time.” Her hand is on his, wedding band grazing his knuckles.

(The notion that even the bloody therapist has someone to go home to knocks the wind of him and shrivels up his insides.)

“Promise.” He whispers, the word tasting metallic on the tip of his tongue.

“I’ll get you a cab.”

 

*

He started off with 5mg of heroin, before knocking it up to ten. And with a newfound adrenaline, had begun downing various cocktails, forcing a brilliant splash of color onto the drab surroundings. He recalls pacing around the flat, violent shivers running down his spine as the hypersensitivity kicked in, following a delusion of John’s hands tracing the prickling expanse of his stomach, as he collapsed onto the floor.

Now he’s watching himself, curled up in a fetal position in the middle of a trashed apartment, pale as a ghost, the perfect portrait of disarray. The very essence of him has detached itself from its mortal shell, and he feels freer than ever before. The curse of sentiment can’t touch him up here. He is no longer tethered to the cage of human emotion, lurking about in the deepest recesses of his mind, waiting to pounce.

It is the sight of the cane that brings him back. Tucked away in a corner right beside the stairs. An unassuming piece of wood, but upon closer inspection, encapsulated the world as he knew it. He is assaulted by an onslaught of memories. Starlight raining down on John’s hair, turning grey to silver. Stifled giggles with their backs pressed up against the wall. John’s fingers digging into his arm as he buried his nose into his neck.

A lifetime ago. When he could slide his fingers under the hem of John’s sweater and not feel him flinch and jerk away. And he can’t help but feel a sick sense of contempt for the dead wife, with her ploys and deception, who couldn’t even expire without ripping them apart for good.

 

*

Sherlock reads somewhere that a loss of hearing sometimes result in heightened senses. Deprived auditory areas of the brain reorganize to better process visual information, resulting in greater sensitivity to moving stimuli in their line of sight. The accuracy of this piece of information presents itself during a midnight chase with a wayward jewelry thief, who poisoned his employer with a virtually undetectable form of ricin before taking off. The chase is a heated one, a scurrying silhouette practically glowing in the dark as he darts after the light, staking out alleyways, sniffing the walls like a trained bloodhound till a hooded figure crosses his periphery for half a second, which is all it takes.

The Yarders show up within minutes to slap the handcuffs on, Lestrade nodding gruffly and giving him a suspicious once over.

“I’m not _high_ , if that’s what you’re insinuating.” He hisses, once the rest are out of earshot. “Just a mere coincidence. And you’re welcome, by the way.”

“I’m not insinuating anything, mate.” Lestrade lights a cigarette, eyeing him warily. “It’s just that most of our midnight arrests tend to occur when you’re in need of a fix.”

“He was sneaking out the back door, anyone could have spotted him. Stashed the loot in the basement and came back to get it once the hype had died down. And he would have gotten away with it too if I wasn’t ‘snooping around’, as you so eloquently put it. Pity, I’m sure this would have been a great addition to your impressive collection of cold cases.”

A waft of smoke clouds the air in front of him and he inhales deeply. Lestrade smirks.

“This isn’t about John, is it?”

“No, this isn’t about _John._ ” He spits the name out like poison. Why did everything have to be about John?

(But the again John was the sole object his world revolved around, without him, the sprawling landscapes of his mind would crumble and the seas would dry up, sending the entire planet careening off its axis.)

“Met him for a pint the other day. Well, I had a pint. He had four neat whiskeys followed by two shots of tequila. Had to drive him home after that.”

“Hmm. He never could hold his liquor.” He kicks at a rock, keeping his eyes on the ground and Lestrade struggles to find the words that wouldn’t do a god damn thing.

He finally gives up and claps him on the shoulder. “He’ll come around. Just a matter of time.”

 

*

That night, he dreams of days long gone, the triumphs and woes of the yesteryears. A strange collage of crime scenes and candlelit dinners, John’s face being the radiant constant in each and every one.

(Back when they were still SherlockandJohn, woven into one, instead of Sherlock and John and recently just Sherlock.)

_The dream morphs into a familiar setting. White tablecloths, garishly yellow décor. They are out on the porch, just the both of them. John is saying something, face flushed, and fists clenched, but he can’t hear a word. He tries to read his lips but the sentences don’t make any sense. It occurs to him that he might have had one glass of champagne too many. Alcohol is good, lowers inhibitions, and mutes the world. He laughs, the bitter taste of irony spreading like wildfire across his tongue._

_John’s fist connects with his jaw, sending him reeling backwards. No, this wasn’t what happened. The dance. He left early. John stalks back in, dragging Mary onto the dance floor. They waltz, spinning and twirling under the never-ending strings of fairy lights, and he turns and empties the contents of his stomach all over the polished floorboards. He palms at his coat, retrieving the cold hunk of metal that is the Sig Sauer P226R, hands trembling as he presses it onto the glass, barrel aimed point blank, at the glittering bride._

He wrenches himself from the dream, into the pre-dawn darkness. There’s a sharp pain around his middle, like a blade pierced cleanly between his ribs. He doesn’t try to go back to sleep, instead he lies there, frozen solid, eyes peeled and watching as blinding images of blood and chaos dance in front of him in the dark.

 

*

Sherlock has only visited the graveyard on a couple of occasions in his lifetime. The first was to bury Redbeard, a solemn event, when he was five, with Mycroft’s arm resting awkwardly across his shoulders. The second was to his own funeral, which was sparsely attended. It is a rare phenomenon indeed, to be present at one’s own funeral. But today is the first time Sherlock Holmes truly _listens_ , to the regrets and unfulfilled wishes of the dead. They are screaming out at him and he can’t shut it off.

The man they both loved? It was galling, really, to listen to her glorified spew on the widescreen telly. The battlefield would always be John’s heroin, and it was an addiction that would only worsen with the entrapment of domesticity.

He stares at the gravestone. Rosamund Mary Watson. He would be lying if he said that he hadn’t dreamed about this day, when she would be lying six feet below the undergrowth and his polished Italian shoes. He wants nothing more than to revel in triumph, brag about the clandestine dates in the dead of night with John, fucking in drug dens and back alleys, palms pressed against the grimy brick walls.

He dreads the day where he would have to meet the child. And he’ll be forced to plaster a smile to his face (easy, done it a million times. But the tricky part is the eyes, they only shine when you’re lit from within) and look at the child without retching. She’ll have John’s smile but _her_ eyes and his brain won’t be able to separate the two. Love and hate all mashed up into one and it’ll drive him _mad._ Mad with rage and disgust and fear that all these _feelings_ that he as good as banished will come crashing through the steel doors of the mind palace. And there won’t be anything he will be able to do about it.

But words are futile now, so he sits down right on top of the grave, the hushed solitary dusk soaking up the last dregs of pain radiating from beneath the frozen soil, sharper than ever before. He wonders if he and Mary would have gotten along better, in another world. A world without John, where they could see each other for what they truly are, free from the crippling mirage of happiness and harmony. But their multitude of differences are a thing of the past, for they are now identical, hollow and detached from the rest of the world, completely isolated except for the voices in their heads.

 

*

An oddly fortuitous occurrence presents itself when he decides to visit Tesco after a few weeks of fasting. The term ‘fortuitous’ is used loosely, carelessly and in this case, rather unhealthily. He has slipped into a dream like trance, dragging his feet through the aisles, rows of jam, marmalade and butter all swirling together in a rainbow collage. Then, somewhere in the corner of his eye, he notices the faint outline of a beige sweater, and turns wildly, almost breaking his neck in the process.

It’s John, palm resting on the handle of the stroller in front of him, squinting at a tin of baby food, brows furrowed in thought. Perfectly normal to any passerby, but suddenly Sherlock finds it very hard to breathe. Each intake of breath catches in his windpipe, and his lungs are starting to suction and expel all the remaining oxygen left in his system.

He is a starved man, and John is an extravagant buffet, looming just out of reach. He is crouched behind an abandoned trolley, eyes fixated on the devastatingly beautiful man standing just a few feet away from him, wishing, _praying_ that he’d look up and notice.

(Walk over with a smile and twinkle in his eye like nothing ever happened. Ask him to move into the new house. Spend the nights fucking in the bed where _she_ had lain until the stench of _Claire de la Lune_ and over priced hair products are bleached from the sheets.)

And then, without warning, the background noises of murmuring from the rest of the patrons explode into a cacophony of deafening shrieks, ravaging his eardrums. An excruciating pain blooms in the back of his head, causing him to double over, the fluorescent lights flickering to black. He stumbles to his feet, knocking over an entire row of detergent as he limps toward the entrance.

(On the bright side, he feels John’s eyes on his back, pure concern radiating from his gaze, lighting each column of his vertebrae like a torch. Probably just a figment of his imagination, but it helps him get back in one piece.)

*

 

_Hyperosmia, an increased olfactory acuity (heightened sense of smell), which arises when there is an abnormally increased signal at any point between the olfactory receptors and the olfactory cortex. Causes could be genetic or environmental._

An opportune moment for an experiment, he muses, and makes logs of the different scents and smells that he’s able to pick up from the living room of the flat, eggs and bacon sizzling in grease down at Mrs. Hudson’s, a gas leak down the street, the metallic tinge of blood from a passing ambulance.

It comes as no surprise when he discovers that the entire expanse of pallid skin of his entire frame, from head to toe, is wrought with a raw, almost aching tenderness. He shivers as a light breeze drifts in through the window, like pinpricks running down his arms and legs, fingernails scraping against his nerve endings. His hand skims absently across his thigh, sending a hot pulse of arousal between his legs.

Trembling, he slides his hand down, past the elastic waistband of his pajamas, to grip himself _hard_. Forefinger and thumb on his shaft, slow and rhythmic, and he has to stifle a moan when he comes, John’s name seared on the tip of his tongue, all over light blue cotton.

 

*

Somewhere during the sixth week, Sherlock wakes to a perfect silence. The sun hasn’t started its slow trajectory up, still lazing about below the horizon. He keeps still, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest, trying to recall the sound of air leaving his lungs through his mouth. He squints around the room, taking in the unfamiliar décor. John’s room. The scent of his aftershave still clinging to the sheets as if it were only yesterday.

His phone screen lights up, notifying him of the seventeen missed calls from the previous night, mostly from Lestrade. He switches it to vibrate and slides it into his back pocket. He gets out of bed and puts on the kettle, standing by it till hot steam erupts from the spout. It’s all terribly inconvenient. Over breakfast, he vaguely ponders over how the deaf get by.

It soon dawns on him that the absence of sound has started to jeopardize the quality of his work. It enters through his crevices, sifting through memories and pulling them to the surface, jumbling his train of thought. His Stradivarius sits in a corner, dusty and neglected, and he picks it up, digging the bow out from underneath the couch. Like a well-oiled machine he starts playing the first few notes of Beethoven’s Sonata No. 5, in F Major. He can hear the notes in his head, sweet and sickening as he drags the bow across the strings with a little more force than necessary.

It isn’t right. He is about to toss the instrument across the flat when a new melody flowers somewhere in his conscious mind. Loud and demanding, but also soft and subtle. A longing that has penetrated the skin and wormed its way through flesh and bone. He isn’t sure what to make of this feeling; only that it resembled being driven by an irresistible demon through the night, towards an unknown destination.

Grabbing the nearest sheet of paper, he scribbles down the notes, toying with all their intricacies and making them his own. About six hours later, he holds the completed piece of music in his hands. Heat flares up within him, and he rips a corner of the page off, before tearing the entire piece up, throwing the shreds up into the air and watching them flutter back down around him like tiny pieces of confetti.

The next day is the same. He wakes up in a cold sweat, panic invading his system. There’s a traffic jam on the street below, but the incessant honking is lost to him. He retrieves the handgun from the bedside drawer, heading to the living room and adding three new bullet holes to the torn wallpaper. The gunfire is silent. He screams, falling to the floor and pounding at the floorboards, the burn in his throat the only sign of sound being emitted into the air.

Mrs. Hudson comes at around noon, mouthing obscenities at him like a character in a silent film. He reads her lips, something about the other tenants threatening to terminate their contract, but doesn’t respond, turning over on the couch. She watches him, brows furrowed in concern, before shaking her head and taking her leave.

 

*

 

He’s riding the tube, a rare occurrence, especially seeing as he doesn’t have a particular destination in mind. The occasional jolts as the carriage makes its way through the lineup of stations keeps him awake. There are families and couples onboard, lips moving, eyes crinkling, as if they’re all in on a joke he would never understand. _  
_

_As if the world’s a carousel and he’s fallen off. And he’s watching from the ground up, amidst the dirt and gravel, staring at the lights spin like a circus, wishing he could somehow get back on._

There’s a man with silver hair at the rear end of the carriage, back turned to him, flicking through today’s papers. There’s something about his gait, the careful tilt of his head that keeps Sherlock transfixed. _John has three moles on the back of neck, not four,_ his brain chides. _He would never in a million years don a sweater in that ghastly shade of olive_. Still, he can’t bring himself to look away.

He gets off at Westminster, and Sherlock follows, weaving through the crowd like a trained hound. Out of nowhere, a figure crashes into him from the side, almost knocking him to the ground. He stumbles to his feet, crystal eyes tearing the crowd apart for another glimpse. But he’s gone.

_Gone._

The word ricochets through his skull, worming its way through the facts and figures. Devouring them. He stumbles to a bench in the corner, half collapsing on it, drenched in sweat. The air is unnaturally thick, and it takes him a few tries to replace the oxygen in his lungs. He takes a few moments to collect himself, before standing up, dusting his coat off in an attempt to hold on to his last shreds of dignity.

On the way out of the station, the same man passes him, nose buried in the papers. Long nose. Watery eyes. Smattering of freckles across the cheeks. Something plummets within him, but he gives the man a tight smile when they exchange glances, and hurries off into the rain.

 

*

The void fades in and out of his waking hours, almost like a friend. He learns to take respite in its company, turn it to his advantage and block out the rest of world, as he stews over the more complex cases. He has attached his mobile to his wrist, with several layers of duct tape. It vibrates mid-experiment, almost causing him to spill a beaker of hydrochloric acid.

John will be visiting 221B at 20:30 sharp. MH

The words swim in and out of focus, coagulating before his eyes. His hands are shaking, tremors shooting down his wrists and forearms as he rips the phone from his arm.

What for? SH

How am I supposed to know? A simple ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss. MH

Don’t act like you had anything to do it. It’s pathetic, even by your standards. SH

Charming as ever, brother mine. I assume you’d want to get the kettle boiling. Perhaps light a few candles? One can never be too prepared. MH

He tosses the phone across the room, watching it roll silently across the floorboards.

 

*

He slips into a dreamless sleep on the couch, wrapped in a duvet and almost falls off when he feels the warm press of a palm on his shoulder.

“John?” He is startled to hear his own voice, raspy and low, just barely above a whisper. It’s John, soft and creased, absorbing what little light there is in the room, turning him almost incandescent. The new maroon sweater he has on is a size too small, hugging his newly sculpted frame in all the right places.

“Jesus Christ. You look awful.” John steps away, awkwardly shuffling into the kitchen and pouring a glass of water. “Drink this.”

He watches as John’s mouth form the words. The decibels increase with each word, like the volume control on the remote, swelling and building, as the world shifts back into full opacity. Like a half-drowned man, he emerges from the vacuum, the rattling dissonance between them more apparent than ever.

He takes a few sips of the chilled water, closing his eyes and letting it run down his throat. They don’t speak, eyes shifting around, looking for a single surface that they have yet to defile with various unspeakable acts. _The great flaw of a perfect silence_ , Sherlock notes, _is that allows for a series of unmentionables to come tumbling out of the woodwork._

“I was wrong. Saying the things I did. It was never your fault. I just…I cheated. First with you and then with- It doesn’t matter.”

He is too preoccupied with the smooth baritone of John’s voice wrapping around him like velvet on bare skin to respond.

“Have you sobered up?” He asks, through clenched teeth.

“More or less.” Sherlock replies. His nonchalance earns him a hard stare; the first time they’ve locked eyes in since that day.

John shakes his head, running callused fingers over the needle marks. 

“Why?” he asks simply, tone frigid.

“Sound was a bit more…elusive than usual.”

“You could have _died,_ Sherlock. And right after—“ He pauses, biting his lip. There is pain etched in the lines of his face, gray lining his eyes. “Once was enough.”

For a second, he assumes that he means _her,_ the tragedy of her death. But something about the stubborn set of his jaw and the strained tone of his voice propels him back in time. Three years ago, when they had nothing but each other while their world crumbled around them.

“Do have some faith, only a blithering idiot would be capable of a fatal overdose.”

John scoffs and shakes his head, taking hold of his left arm and rolling up the sleeve. There is a sharp intake of breath, and Sherlock peers down at the map of tiny claret bruises adorning his forearm, from wrist to elbow, like tiny drops of spilled ink over parchment.

“We’ve got to do something about that.” John says, a little out of breath. His fingers ghost across the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s knuckles, and he shivers. 

“It can wait.” He replies, fingers closing over John’s wrist.

Seconds pass. Or lifetimes. He isn’t sure. Then they collide, with the same force of gravity that merges two stars. A stellar collision. A phenomenon that only occurs every 10,000 years. It’s all limbs and lips, as they stumble up the stairs, shedding one item of clothing on each step. Sherlock shivers against the cold cotton sheets, sheets that haven’t been slept in for weeks, as John presses kisses down his chest, before moving lower. His senses have somewhat dulled, with the resurgence of sound, but the tips of John’s finger are igniting tiny sparks of electricity on his skin, as they trail down the bumps of his spine. They are lost in time, each second that passes fusing them together a little more, till they are one. A single body harboring a single soul. Like it was always meant to be.

 

*

Everything is still, the world holding its breath before the first break of dawn. John’s head is tucked into the crook of his neck, strands of silver blonde hair tickling at his chin. He leans down and presses a ear to John’s chest. 

Silence.

(Darkness clouds his vision. He is scrambling, clawing at the mere memory of the sound of a pulse. It’s fading fast, morphing into nothing more than a figment. The void is back, seeping into him like poison.)

He waits, the seconds crawling by, each tick slower than the last.

(A ray of light in the far distance, followed by music. He trails after in its wake, entranced by its iridescent beauty, pulling him towards the pulsating sound. Spreading. Converging.)

A beat.

Then two.


End file.
